𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓞𝓯 𝓘𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮

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Following the revelation of the Marquess of Pembroke's pregnancy, confirming her continued fertility, I find myself fervently hoping for the arrival of twins. Two sons would solidify the Tudor lineage and fulfill my deepest desire to honor my father's legacy. As the courtiers revel in the festivities, celebrating the new year with feasting and merriment, I retreat to my chambers.

In solitude, I offer prayers for divine blessings upon England, yearning for continued prosperity and stability in the coming days. With unwavering faith, I trust in God's providence to grant us what we rightfully deserve, as I carry out my duties as king, ever mindful of my father's watchful presence guiding my reign.

In the midst of January's reign, during its second week, I beckon Thomas Boleyn to my chambers. His arrival is at my behest, a private encounter laden with significance. As we meet, our gazes lock, conveying unspoken sentiments of forgiveness and reconciliation.

Seated before the crackling fire, I extend the courtesy of inviting Thomas to join me. His demeanor is one of refined elegance, befitting the Earl of Wiltshire's stature. Clad in fine damask, he exudes the air of a seasoned courtier, well-versed in the art of impressing royalty.

Silence reigns between us, for I have not granted permission for words to flow. Instead, each uttered syllable is laced with a subtle hint of poison, a reminder of past transgressions. Yet, despite the unspoken tension, there exists an unspoken understanding of absolution.

"Greetings, Thomas," I begin, acknowledging the news of the Marquess with measured composure. "It seems the Marquess has proven herself worthy once more. She carries a son." The glint in his eye betrays a hint of satisfaction at the news, acknowledging the boon of good fortune bestowed upon England.

"Indeed, God smiles upon our land, granting His grace upon the Queen and her beloved," I remark, the word "lover" resonating with intriguing implications.

"I am honored by your summons, my liege. It is a privilege to once again stand in your presence," Thomas's words carry a warmth, an expression of gratitude tinged with reverence. Yet beneath the veneer of civility, lies the stain of his deeds—ambition, avarice, and desire.

"Yes, indeed, God's blessings upon England are evident in Anne Boleyn's forthcoming child," I respond, acknowledging the divine favor bestowed upon my kingdom. Surprisingly, my heart still holds a flame for Anne, despite my efforts to extinguish it. Divine intervention, perhaps, for I find myself forsaking Jane Seymour's affections in favor of Anne's.

Turning my attention to the crackling fire, its warmth enveloping us, I contemplate the complexities of the situation. Thomas seeks my favor, yet such favor is not freely given. We sit in silence, the flames dancing before us, a tangible manifestation of the unspoken tension between us. Conversation, fraught with peril, remains unspoken, for fear of its repercussions.

Time passes slowly, each moment weighted with unresolved tension. I am not yet ready to extend forgiveness to the Earl of Wilshire, despite his wife's loyalty to the crown. As Thomas rises from his seat, wine and food are brought forth, though my appetite remains subdued. I meet his gaze, acknowledging his gratitude towards the servants, yet the rift between us remains palpable, a testament to the complexities of power and allegiance.

Standing tall beside the crackling hearth, Thomas's gaze fixated on the dancing flames. "Thomas," I addressed him, prompting his attention. He turned to face me, his response humble, lacking the usual arrogance I had come to expect. Despite the urge to confront him for his exploitation of his daughters, I suppressed my disdain, yearning for temporary peace. Peace, a fleeting concept, elusive even in death's embrace. Divine providence guides our paths, shaping our destinies. Though kingship was not my desired path, I accepted the crown's weight upon my brow, dismissing thoughts of madness that threatened to consume me.

With a gentle smile, I extended an olive branch to Thomas, acknowledging the strained history between us. I offered condolences for the loss of his son George, expressing remorse for the rift between us. His response was measured, contemplative, as he grappled with his words. Despite the loss of his only son, he would look to his son-in-law William Stafford as his heir, ensuring the continuation of the Boleyn name.

Mary, his eldest daughter, held a special place in his heart, cherished even amidst our tumultuous past. Though I once dallied with her, fathering a son, I denied the child's paternity, now committed to Anne Boleyn as my queen. Divorced and remarried, our union would be publicly celebrated, her status as queen undeniable. Anyone who dared challenge my decree would face treason and its consequences.

As Thomas took his leave, citing illness, his words held a hint of bitterness, a stark reminder of our complex relationship. Alone in my chambers, I grappled with the weight of my mortality, determined to outlive my impending death long enough to secure a male heir to the throne. Mourning must be set aside, for the future of England demanded my undivided attention.